


Some Days

by luq



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5506016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luq/pseuds/luq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're like clockwork, the pair of them; every piece might be a bit worn-down, a little tarnished, but the gears still run just fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Days

**Author's Note:**

> A quick, fluffy piece to stretch out the writing muscles. Thanks for stopping by, and enjoy!

1.

 

Some days, it goes like this:

 

A bomb goes off two floors below, and James is running like hell, the voice in his ear guiding him as much as his own will. The floor lurches, walls crumble, and there’s no way he’s getting out alive this time.

“This is no time to be morbid, 007, you can think about death on your next vacation. Door on the right, and down the stairs you go.”

James opens the door, and makes it halfway down the staircase before the whole thing collapses; he leaps, scarcely reaching the remains of an office floor.

“Stairs are gone, Q, I’d really fucking appreciate—“

“Window on the left, then. Quickly now.” Q cuts him off, as if James hasn’t spoken at all. James indulges in a split-second of indignation, before hurtling himself headfirst through the window. He falls for what feels like a very long time, and accepts his impending injury with practiced resignation.

There’s no way he could possibly make it out of this in one piece. It’s impossible.

As he bounces on a canvas tent, crashes through, and hits the ground relatively gently, James is reminded of a lesson he learned long ago—even impossibilities can’t be trusted. His quartermaster plays with impossibility the way a cat plays with string.

(He survives with a concussion, a sprained wrist, and just a few stitches to mark the occasion. He returns the poison-dispensing ring, the perfectly balanced multi-blade, the recording devices. Q asks him what he’s done with the gun this time; James simply smirks, and leaves the office.

Q doesn’t know what he expected.)

 

2.

 

Most days go something like this:

 

James finds himself seated outside some decadent café or other, dressed in something stylish and always long-sleeved (“Scars draw _attention_ , 007,” Q tells him. _You don’t need to look any more conspicuous than you do already, simply by virtue of existing,_ he refrains from adding aloud. Mustn’t give the bastard any more reason to be smug.) He pretends to read the menu, sunglasses hiding the fact that he is always scanning the crowd for potential trouble. 

(Trouble isn’t expected until tomorrow night, but an agent can never be certain of these things.)

The sound of Q’s steady breathing and rhythmic typing has faded into the background, familiar white noise in an unfamiliar place.

The soft _meow_ in James’ left ear is, therefore, entirely unexpected.

“Q?” A pause in the clicking of the keyboard.

“Yes, 007?” 

“What was that?”

“What was _what,_ 007?”

“That noise, Q. It sounded like a _cat._ ”

“Oh, that.” The typing resumes, settling immediately into the usual rhythm. “It was.”

“Naturally.” James stretches a bit, and relaxes. “Why do you have a cat in Q-Branch?”

“Because the other one’s at the veterinarian, and Sophia gets destructive when she’s alone. Honestly, Bond.” Q sounds slightly disappointed, as though James should have known this. “I _did_ leave a note, you know.” Perhaps he should have. 

“I’ll pay more attention.”

“Mm. See that you do.” James can hear the smile in Q’s voice. A warm feeling blooms somewhere in his gut; James refuses to name this feeling, and instead wonders where he might purchase a tin of Q’s favorite tea.

 

3.

 

The worst days are like this:

 

Q hasn’t said a word to him in two days. Even the cats seem upset, as though it were _James’_ fault he’d been captured.

Q mutters that he’s taking a walk, and James is at a loss.

 

 _He had told Q to stop listening, to mute the microphone, to do_ something _so he wouldn’t have to hear what was being done to him, so he couldn’t hear James’ pained moans and the crunch of breaking bone. So Q wouldn’t hear him die._

_Q had refused, and in a moment of desperation, James had crushed the microphone himself._

 

And all at once, James understands. He imagines the situation reversed: Q, off-grid, somewhere undetermined, scared and alone and being _hurt_ by someone desperate for information. James, unable to help, Q’s painful yells the only evidence that he is even _alive._ He imagines that one lifeline being cut off.

He recoils from the thought. Reaches into a cupboard, pours too much Scotch, downs it in one gulp.

He hadn’t wanted Q to hear his weakness. This, he realizes now, had been a mistake.

When Q returns to the apartment, James is sprawled on the couch, a cat on either side of him, with a half-empty bottle in one hand. Their eyes meet; Q opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks away, mutters something indiscernible, and walks to the kitchen. Sets a kettle to heat on the stove. Stands there, apparently watching the water boil, his back facing James.

James sighs heavily, places his Scotch on the floor, and makes his way to Q. He stands close, uncertain as to whether he is allowed to touch just now; Q makes the decision for him, leaning back against James’ chest.

“I was _terrified,_ James,” he whispers, like it’s something shameful. James wraps his arms around Q’s chest, holding him close. He buries his face into that wild hair, closes his eyes, inhales deeply. Smells smoke, and cringes-- Q had quit smoking nearly six months ago, after a respiratory infection had turned nasty. James holds him tighter.

There are so many things he could say, but James never apologizes and he won’t make promises he can’t keep. Not to Q, _never_ to Q. 

He reaches for the honest words that live in the warm spot in his chest, the place where Q lives, the place nobody can ever touch. 

“Me, too,” he murmurs, so quietly he isn’t certain Q’s heard him.

Q’s hands reach up to cover James’ own.

 

4.

 

The best days are like this:

They wake up with the morning sun, James sprawled across his deceptively sturdy quartermaster. Q’s strong, fine-boned hands tracing senseless patterns across James’ back.

Sophia and Astrid demand breakfast, and James prepares their food while Q makes tea. They move about the kitchen like and it’s a dance, synchronized like clockwork, barefoot and softer than anyone else will ever see them.

On these days, they fall into their own routines: James with a book and a glass of fine liquor, and Q with his laptop and at least one cat over his shoulder. They drift closer together as the day progresses, eventually on the couch, Q’s legs draped over James’ lap.

James lets Q pick a movie—always science fiction, usually longer than strictly necessary. Q watches the film with shining eyes, looking suddenly very young. James links their hands, and drifts to sleep; he awakes with his head on Q’s lap and the credits rolling.

“Care to summarize the film, Bond?” Q teases, a mischievous smile on that youthful face. Not so young, though—James can see the crow’s feet forming at the corners of Q’s eyes, the wrinkle between his eyebrows, the grey hair he _knows_ has grown at the back of Q’s head that he dares not mention.

“It was a masterpiece,” James answers, stretching out indulgently. “Truly the romance of our time.” Q digs his long fingers into James’ ribs; James rolls over with a laugh, pinning Q down in retaliation and kissing him silly.

“No it wasn’t, you arse—“ James silences him with another kiss, and Q pulls back, determined to make his point. “It was about _killer aliens,_ James.”

“That’s what I said.”

Q’s eyes meet James,’ and his face softens, melting into a soft and knowing smile. He runs a hand through James’ short, blond hair; James closes his eyes for a moment, sighs contentedly.

“Yes,” Q says, with a fond little laugh, “I suppose you did.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked reading this as much as I liked writing it.


End file.
